Heart Strike

by David Bishop

  Dillinger, who was driving, twisted around toward the backseat. “What about the GPS we just put on Mostafa’s wheels, should we take it off?”

  “That one’s on, right?”

  “Yes. And operational.”

  “Like I said before, leave that one on, and the device in his rented bedroom. What about his phone?”

  “He doesn’t have a land based, only a cellphone. Our warrant gives that to us as well, but it’s not yet operational.”

  “Hold off on his cellphone, but keep the GPS on his car. Let’s keep track of Mostafa and his movements over the next couple of days, then we’ll decide. I’m assuming we got homing on Arafa’s moped.”

  “That’s a negative, sir.”

  Testler turned to face Dillinger. “What?”

  “His moped wasn’t on the campus. Not where he always leaves it. We don’t know why.”

  “No biggie. If we have him under foot surveillance, he’ll lead us to his moped.”

  “Negative again, sir.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “We understood both students’ movements on campus, or so we thought, and we needed help on these searches. The two that remained at GU knew what both students looked like, where they parked, and the pattern of their movements, one assigned to Mostafa and a second to Arafa. When class was about to end, the agents left their observations points near the classroom and moved to get in position for where the students would go next. That was Arafa’s last class so the agent moved to where Arafa always parked his moped, but today it wasn’t there.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “Our agent was out of position to see where Arafa went after his last class of the day.”

  Testler took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Without saying anything further, he got out, went over and got into the other vehicle. He drove off in the direction of the condo building where Dorothy Mitchum lived on the fourth floor.

  Chapter 40

  Ryan Testler knocked and waited. After his second knock, the door was opened by an elderly woman in a flowered apron. Her hand remained on the door frame, her feet spread to assure balance. Her eyes were kindly but curious.

  “Ms. Dorothy Mitchum?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  Ryan extended his arm toward the opening. “May I come in? I need to talk with you.”

  Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. Her brows drew inward. She looked at the card Ryan had just given her: Special Consultant to the President of the United States. “Why do you want from me?”

  “It’s an urgent matter involving someone you know.”

  The concern on her face eased. “I apologize for forgetting my manners.” Her hand remained on the frame.

  “I understand. It’s not every day a lady answers her door to a stranger speaking of an important need.”

  “You can say that again. Particularly, someone representing our president.” She let go of the frame of the door and stepped back. “Come in. Come in. Please.”

  Ryan stepped over her threshold and to the side.

  Dorothy closed the door, smiled, and motioned Ryan toward her couch. “Or would you prefer we sit in the kitchen?”

  “From what I can see, your kitchen is very cheery. Bright. As long as you’re offering, let’s use it.”

  Dorothy nodded and walked ahead of him.

  After refusing various offers of drinks, Ryan asked if she had Dr. Pepper.

  “Is that your favorite?”

  “One of them.”

  She took a can from her refrigerator and offered a glass.

  Ryan tapped the can with his finger. “This is fine.”

  “I keep some around because it’s the favorite of a GU student who runs errands for me.”

  Ryan popped the top. “Faraj Arafa?” Ryan took a drink. His eyes on her.

  “Why yes … Mr. Testler, are you here about Faraj?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “The other day someone came by to ask about him. They said it was a job background check. Is your visit the same, job background?”

  “What do you think, ma’am?” Ryan took a second drink of his soda.

  “I didn’t think so then. I don’t think so now.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on, ma’am.”

  “Counting on?” Dorothy got up and went to her refrigerator.

  “Your good judgment, ma’am. You’re right on both counts. It wasn’t then. It isn’t now.”

  Dorothy half-turned the top on a container and used it to fill a glass with iced tea. “I need to tell you I’m very fond of Faraj Arafa. He’s a good boy. … Excuse an old lady, I shouldn’t refer to a young man as a boy.”

  Ryan smiled. “I understand ma’am. They keep looking younger, don’t they?”

  Her expression turned bland. “Mr. Testler, what’s this about?”

  “In light of you being fond of Faraj, I need to ask if you’ll put on your good citizen hat and answer my questions.”

  “Please, Mr. Testler, you’re a charmer, no doubt. But, quit beating around the bush. I ask you again, what’s this all about?”

  “National Security, ma’am.”

  “First, National Security is, in my view, an overused and often abused buzz phrase when the government needs something to hide behind while covering up something they shouldn’t be doing to begin with.”

  “I don’t disagree, ma’am.”

  “And stop calling me, ma’am. My name is Dorothy. Dot to my friends, but, with apology, you don’t qualify at the moment. You’ve come here to accuse or pursue someone very dear to me.”

  “Okay, Dorothy it is. You said, ‘first’ is there a second part to your reply?”

  “The second is this: If you’re going to press me to tell you everything you want to know while hiding behind some national security blanket so you can avoid telling me anything, you won’t get much from me. As for threatening me with jail for obstruction of justice or whatever, if that’s part of your shtick when you turn tough, don’t waste your time. I’m in my mid-seventies and never been in any trouble with the law. The chance of any judge putting a solid citizen old woman behind bars for almost anything is very remote. Then again, if it were to happen, it would give me a last exciting adventure to share with my friends. I’d quickly become the talk of the building.”

  Dorothy crossed her arms and tried to smile, but looked away. “To the contrary, if you talk to me, if you let me know what this about, I’ll cooperate … with regret.”

  “Let’s try it your way, Dorothy, and level with each other. How about I go first, okay? Your bird is a canary isn’t it? I’ve never seen a red one before.”

  “Their color is influenced by their diet. When they’re bred to be red they are more talkers and less singers, at least I’m under that impression. I hand-raised Red, so he’s less afraid of people than most canaries, but he’s very selective. When Red’s out of his cage, Faraj is the only person, other than me, the bird will fly over and land on. Several of my friends who’ve been coming over since I first brought Red home as a chick, can’t get close to Red, but, almost immediately, the bird took to the young man.”

  Dorothy took a long drink from her tea. She wrapped her hands around the cool glass. “Would you like some tea? Faraj makes it for me. It’s from the leaves of the hibiscus flower. He adds soda water and a mint sprig. It’s wonderful. Is that something you think a terrorist would do for an old infidel woman?”

  Ryan smiled and held up his can of Dr. Pepper. “This is fine. I’d like to mention, you, not I, first used the word terrorist.”

  “Mr. Testler, special assistant to President Wellington, you spoke of going first. Now would be good.”

  “Yes, ma’a—Dorothy. We’ve received a very credible threat of a terrorist attack coming here in D.C., soon. We’ve been told it’ll be carried out by an Egyptian student at GU. One who’s been on campus about four years. We have reason to believe that student may be Faraj Arafa. My goal is to catch him or clear him before
he carries out his mission. Without him being killed in the process. I’m sure you can help.”

  Dorothy sat still, her body rigid, her hands clenched. After a minute she ran one hand down the moisture on the outside of her glass, then her other hand. She lifted her drink. Her hand shook. She put the glass back down and rubbed her moist hands together. She did this without moving her gaze off Ryan’s face.

  “What I just told you did not come as a total surprise, did it, Dorothy? I doubt you knew, but I think you suspected. Could I be wrong about your suspicions? Yes. Most likely, I’m not. What I do believe is you couldn’t live with yourself if Faraj has such a plan, you don’t talk to me, and we can’t prevent the act.”

  “What is it he … you think he’s going to do?”

  “We haven’t yet defined the target or the form of the threat. One thing we do know: militant extremists don’t plant a sleeper deep in America, keep him here for four years, and then order him to steal school supplies from the university. …Whatever it is, one thing is certain. It’s horrific.”

  “Are you trying to scare me, Mr. Testler?”

  “I hope I have. Talk to me, Dorothy. Before it’s too late. And, don’t ask. I don’t know when too late will be. Maybe a couple of days. Maybe a couple of hours. I’m working a lot of people twenty-four-seven on this. I came myself to see you because, at the point we’re at, nothing is more critical than you talking to me.”

  Ryan’s cellphone rang. He looked at his caller ID. “I should take this, Dorothy. It could be related to what we’re discussing.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded, hardly moving her head.

  Ryan swiped across his phone and put it to his ear. “Testler.”

  Dorothy’s eyes closed tightly.

  “Dillinger. Knowing where you are, I thought you should know our agent positioned in the hall reported that Faraj Arafa walked out of class and headed toward the main exit from the building. However, our agents near the door never saw him come out of the building. When we went in to check, the instructor verified he’d walked out about thirty minutes before the end of class and never returned. He’s at large.”

  “Agent Dillinger, I’m going to put my phone on speaker. I want you to repeat what you just told me. All of it. Just as you said it.” … “Okay, Agent Dillinger, go ahead.”

  Dillinger repeated his report.

  Ryan watched Dorothy’s face while she listened. He thanked Dillinger and hung up.

  “Okay, Dorothy. I’m guessing you know that Faraj has never missed school. Not a day. Not a class. This thing is in motion and getting closer. Assuming we now know who, we still have no clue as to what, where, or when. Time is our enemy, and every minute that passes gives us less of it to react and prepare.”

  “The boy could just be so,” her hands moved frantically, but without purpose, “upset by all this he can’t sit still in class.”

  Ryan licked his lips. “That presupposes he knows about all this. If he’s not the terrorist, there’s nothing to upset him to the point of walking out of class, something he hasn’t done in four years. If Faraj isn’t the terrorist, he has no knowledge about any of what we’ve been discussing.” Ryan remained quiet for a long moment. “Please, Dorothy, before it’s too late. Talk to me. Let me prevent whatever is going to happen. Let me try to save Faraj’s life.”

  Dorothy wiped her hand across her upper apron and brought it to her eyes.

  “Do you know where Faraj is right now?”

  Dorothy squeezed her lips together. Her eyes went big. She shook her head.

  “Do you know where he’ll be later today, or anytime tonight? In the morning? Whenever.”

  Dorothy looked up. “No. He usually spends part of Sundays with me, but that’s several days from now. I doubt he’ll do that now.”

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Please don’t hurt him. I know he doesn’t want to do whatever he’s been ordered to do. That I know. Rely on that.”

  “That’s good to know. I need you to tell me what makes you think he has that attitude?”

  Dorothy told Ryan about her last meal with Faraj. About his being too upset to eat. His desire to be true to his religion, as it was taught to him. His fears for his family. How the young man made up a story of a friend in Europe, ordered to do something he didn’t want to do, calling Faraj for advice. “The boy is conflicted, Mr. Testler. The weight of the world is upon him.”

  Dorothy slowly pushed her arms toward the center of the table. She lowered her head and wept openly.

  Ryan put his hands over Dorothy’s. “As you are similarly conflicted. I pray I’m wrong about Faraj.”

  Dorothy looked up. Her face streaked with tears. “I hope so … but I don’t think so.”

  “Nor do I. You did the right thing here today. I’m sorry to rush off, but I have to go.”

  Dorothy pulled her hands out from under Ryan’s and crossed her arms on the tabletop. She nodded before cradling her head on her arms. “Go. Go.”

  “Are you okay? I can have someone here in five minutes to stay with you.”

  Dorothy looked up. “No. Just stop him. Please … save him.”

  “I’ll do my best. You have my word.” Ryan got up, went around behind her, and patted her shoulder lightly. “If you need anything or think of anything, you have my card.”

  Chapter 41

  Earlier, in spite of his efforts, Faraj Arafa, couldn’t sit still or pay attention. He left a class he enjoyed and, down the hall, cut through a room posted faculty only. A side exit from the faculty lounge took him outside the building. He walked off the GU campus.

  School no longer matters. My destiny is upon me. Allah awaits.

  This morning he didn’t look for the homeless man near the small park. He saw him yesterday and was told to pick up his final instructions today after dark. The man wouldn’t be there anyway. He spoke with him yesterday and the instructions were to look for him every other day.

  After leaving the campus, he walked several blocks to the shop to pick up his tuned up moped. In the next block he stopped to fill its gas tank. From there, he started on his route toward home, but turned from it and drove across the Francis Scott Key Bridge.

  Today could be my last day. I don’t want to be in the same small place, surrounded by the same things.

  Three days ago, he’d stopped at the branch of his bank near his house. Each month seven-hundred-fifty dollars was deposited into that account. Ordered to avoid all the common trappings of a Muslim, in addition to not attending a mosque, his handlers didn’t use the hawala system to send money. The records showed this money came into the bank from his mother in Egypt. He knew this wasn’t true. His rent was sent directly to his landlord, ostensibly from his mother, but not really.

  The brotherhood has a big investment in me. It’s time for repayment.

  He drove south on North Lynn Street, turning onto Meade. After several more aimless turns and wanderings he found himself on Marcey Road at the entrance to the Potomac Overlook Regional Park.

  This is where I must come tonight to pick up my orders.

  It wouldn’t be dark for another three hours. He parked and walked to the end of Overlook Trail, turned around and walked back to Marcey Road. From there he walked Donaldson Run Trail and, from it, onto several other trails. After how long, he didn’t know, he found himself back at his starting point. As he walked, he stopped to marvel at the views.

  Allah, how can you make a land so naturally beautiful, fill it with such bountiful resources, and populate it with unbelievers?

  He walked another mile or so before climbing up far enough to sit at a point from which he could see the waters of the Potomac River.

  If I break from my heritage, my family will pay the price. A man cannot choose his destiny. It is ordained by Allah as defined by his imam.

  Despite his pleading prayers, Allah stayed silent. Faraj believed in Allah, in Islam, and concluded that Allah had chosen not to speak with a l
owly follower like himself. That Allah spoke only to the greats, like the ones who trained him and ordered him on this mission.

  Allah may be angry. Recently, I have not kept up my prayers.

  Eventually, he settled on a rock about fifty yards above the parking area near the restrooms. From there he could see the starting point for the Tree of Heaven Trail.

  For a good while he didn’t do anything. Didn’t think. He just leaned back and watched the white clouds skittering across the blue sky. The peacefulness of it all. It was hard to believe anything ugly was planned, but it was. His hands would be bloody with it.

  An hour later, he moved closer to where he would find the final segment of his orders. He looked around for a secure place where he could, once his instructions were in hand, read them to learn what he must do. The beggar told him to go for his orders after dark. It wasn’t dark enough yet.

  Who I am to kill? How am I going to do it?

  Fifteen minutes later he moved still closer. After a brief look around, he chose a brushy area not far from a group of tennis courts near the drop. From that position he could see the Sema Connect Charging Station along Blue Jay Way Trail just off Marcey Road.

  There’s the drop.

  His mind drifted back to happier times. The last time he was with his mother, although her image was growing vague. The professors in his classes. Sharing dinner with Dorothy Mitchum and their watching Seinfeld’s episodes with the soup Nazi. These images occupied him without interruption. No one came along looking for him. No unexpected vehicles drove by. No one knew of his mission other than those who directed him. There were no pedestrians walking close by the drop, no one loitering. He kept his eyes fixed on the general area of his destination: the Sema Connect Charging Station.

  He worked his way down the slight incline. Slowly to avoid disturbing any rocks or kicking up dust. He carefully maneuvered around the branches and brush preventing unnatural movements that might be picked up by eyes trained to look for such things.